


A Thing of Beauty

by orphan_account



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Community: remixredux08, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-26
Updated: 2008-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ring tries it with Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thing of Beauty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sophinisba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophinisba/gifts).



> Written for Livejournal's RemixRedux08 challenge, this is a remix of [Sophinisba](http://sophinisba.insanejournal.com)'s wonderful [untitled double-dribble](http://sophinisba.livejournal.com/17907.html).

Sam concentrated on hearing the rustle of the leaves, every morning, because that sort of thing was easy to miss, and little things are important. He'd close his ears to the birdsong, to the clattering of plates in the kitchen, the sound of feet in the hallway, and, standing by the window, he would listen only to the wind dancing in the foliage. Then he'd pull the curtains aside and let the sunlight stream in, bright enough to hurt the eyes, and the sun low enough to paint the long shadows of dust flecks on the dresser, of the breadcrumbs on the breakfast tray, and of lashes on the white of Mr Frodo's cheek.

'Sam,' Frodo would call, and Sam would lay his hand on Frodo's thin chest, just below his neck where the nightshirt opened, so the cool metal of the Ring on his middle finger touched his skin. This would calm Frodo, and wake him up to the new day, strong and healthy, healthier every day. Love would flow between them through that touch, love so great that it had conquered evil. (There was a jolt of pain as a shard of rock was pulled from his bleeding foot, the dull throbbing of infection almost eased by the sudden flash of bright pain and there was no sunlight anymore just the dusty sky and the dryness of his lips here at the end of hope.)

Outside their window Mordor would stretch, but Mordor like it was always meant to be, rolling hills and snow-capped mountains, fields blooming with flowers, with life. The tilled earth would produce only good things, from the tastiest pipeweed to the fullest, healthiest corn; there would be gardens full of plump grapes for wine, and trees full of fresh red-cheeked apples, when the season was right. It would be just the land for hobbits, and elves and humans, of course, and dwarfs, if they ever chose to leave their mountain homes. Even better - the dwarfs could build new halls in these once-cursed mountains, and dig their mines underneath, let their ancient song echo through the stone corridors. They could trade their wonderful tools and trinkets with hobbits for their bread, and fashion farming tools that would last from generation to generation. They could guard the borders of Mordor, too, in case there was such need - but there wouldn't be need, would there? Evil would be conquered, cleansed out of the world, and the sweet air of Mordor would be poison to its enemies -

Sam slipped out of fantasy and into a violent coughing fit. They were weaker than before, him and Mr Frodo, but they were alive, and if they were indeed breathing and drinking poison, it was a slow-working one. There was rock under him, not grass. The light was dull, not bright as a morning in a Shire June. Mr Frodo lay on black soot, and the Ring hung on a chain around his neck.

Sam blinked, once, twice, saw Mr Frodo laid down on soft pillows in the sun, and felt the constriction of the Ring on his middle finger.

Frodo clutched it in his sleep. He clutched it hard, but Frodo was weak. Sam held his hand out over it and almost felt the Ring respond to the nearness of his hand. Frodo turned in his sleep, and a frown creased his dirty forehead. Shadows flitted across his face, his brow, his eyes.

The Ring sang. It could slip out of Frodo's finger, like it did off Gollum's, and unto Sam's palm.

Sam backed away, startled by his own thoughts.

He was almost sure Gollum had been evil from the start, but he didn't really think he, Sam, would be strong enough to resist what Mr Frodo only barely could. He'd change, wither, live a long while, stretching out, turning thin and hollow.

Perhaps it would be worth it.

The Dark Lord didn't know where the Ring was right now, and he wouldn't find it out either if they took it far away. They could turn back, go through the tunnel again, and find some place far away and well hidden. Frodo would get better, once Sam was carrying the Ring for him. Sam was strong still, like an ox; a fool maybe, but a fool with shoulders wide enough to carry them both. Frodo needed the Ring, he realized that, and he could have it, every now and then. He would have time to heal, too, away from all this misery and wickedness and pain. They could leave Middle-Earth altogether, travel east beyond Mordor, to places where no-one ever heard of Sauron, or to lands entirely undiscovered. He could dig them a hobbit-hole, though it would take some time, without tools or help; something primitive to start with, but solid and warm. If any evil approached, Sam could kill them, take their hearts with his blade - invisible, if they were too strong for him otherwise. It would be necessary. Mr Frodo wouldn't have to know. He could lay back and dream, and heal, and he would never have to know, and they could share (it), and love, and be left alone. And though his heart would ache for the Shire, for the hobbits they'd have to leave behind, they'd have each other and the secret between them, like a brand of desire, the end of all desire in its consummation. They should not think back and remember their friends. They should leave them to live or die as they wished. No...

No, Sam would not think of them. He thought of Frodo, glowing with health and beauty, in their little home. He thought of love...

But his heart felt cold.

\---

They had what breakfast they could by the dull red glow of an obfuscated dawn, glinting somewhere far in the horizon between thick clouds and black mountaintops. Frodo was little more than a shape of deeper darkness, but his bright eyes glimmered between the shadow and the soot. They didn't speak much anymore these days; they were too tired, too thirsty, and it hurt their cracked lips. What was there to say, that was worth the bother?

Those bright eyes focused on something that only they could see, and for a moment seemed almost to turn red and orange by its glow. They turned slowly to Sam. There was strangeness in that look, as Sam guessed there was in his; the Ring was looking at itself through both their eyes.

Sam shook his head, and was himself again. He began to cry, dry wrenching sobs that filled his breast with an emotion purer than fantasy. Frodo shuffled up to him and put his forehead against his, and held him until the fit subsided.

Silence descended on both their emptied souls, and stayed with them as they got up, as they picked up their packages and their spirits and their bodies, and carried on, towards the center of this dead land, blood in their footsteps, desire dead in their chests.


End file.
